


Red Letter Daze

by Ginger Jam (skylite)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 18:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16269713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/Ginger%20Jam
Summary: The drudgery of time marked by Stanley Pines as he worked to bring his brother home, punctuated by alcohol and memories.





	Red Letter Daze

If you were to ask Stanley Pines if he had a drinking problem, he'd laugh, come up with a weak distraction and change the subject. He wasn't a heavy drinker. He wasn't a social drinker. He couldn't afford to be. His money, every dime, every plugged nickel, down to every Indian head penny had two destinations once they got into his work roughened hands. 

Either it went into the upkeep of the Mystery Shack: mortgage, repairs and supplies, maintenance, attractions. Or it went to the Other thing. The only thing. The thing in the basement that took his twin brother and was going to, by all that Stanley held dear, give him back. One day. Some day. 

So alcohol, despite its painkilling and memory blurring properties, was mostly off limits for Stanley. He needed a clear mind to make head or tail of the notes his brother had left behind. He had barely managed high school without Stanford, but here he was doing complex calculus and physics to fix what he'd broken. 

Even Stan’s life work, such that it was, required pauses. Sometimes the world paused, and sometimes dates significant to Stanley himself forced him to, even if he tried to block out the reason. Liquor was too expensive to drink regularly no matter what. Pitt cola would do until the day he brought Ford home, and they cracked open the good stuff. Glenlivet, the most expensive he could afford; $100 a bottle. Anything fancier he'd have had to steal, and he had no time for that kind of risk. Not now. Not anymore. Otherwise, whatever he got out of the convenience store would serve.

As the years passed, the dates wore ever deepening trenches in his tiring spirit, but sheer stubbornness kept Stan going even when his mind and body craved respite. Except on those days. 

In winter, the world was already slowed down for the winter holidays. Oregon was a hellish frozen wasteland, so going out was really not worth it past November 1. Thanksgiving? While the rest of Gravity Falls did the home and hearth crap the commercials pushed, Stanley spent it alone with venison stew. Hanukkah? Eight nights of his thin and pathetic attempt to duplicate his Ma’s matzoh ball soup. Minus the parsnips. He hated those; always had.

January 1: Stan allowed himself one split of champagne, the cheapest he could find, only to be tossed back at midnight. Marking the new year was still something to celebrate. The cartel had not found him yet.

Stan let the world see him as gruff and grumpy, the man of mystery who ran the tourist attraction he'd turned his house into. They didn't know the truth. Estranged from his family, his brother gone, and no one of significance in his life. Another failed attempt to activate the portal as midnight crept closer. Surviving another year of an existence, rather than a life, he deserved the semblance of celebration. 

He watched the TV with the sound down until midnight. He slugged back his single little bottle of champagne, pretended it was the burn of cheap booze that brought tears to the corners of his eyes. He sang along with “Auld Lang Syne,” voice ragged from drinking. He grimly watched all the young couples sticking their tongues down each other's throats and grinding on each other as confetti and balloons rained from above.

Once the party on TV got swinging again, Stanley slid a hand down his boxers and scratched his libido’s lonely itch watching whatever blonde rockstar gyrated on screen in skintight sequins spangled spandex. Then he shuffled off to bed before resigning himself to another night of prowling the halls, a restless chilly morning, and an hour of pretending to watch football before tackling his basement project again.

February: as long as Stanley didn't go into town, he could pretend that Valentine's day wasn't coming. He hadn't got with a woman in the ten years since he'd been kicked out, and his current mission made the idea of anything more than a quick, frantic go in a truckstop restroom a distant fantasy. But the damn lovey dovey holiday always sent his mind hurtling back to the last happy time he'd had a pretty girl on his arm. Carla McCorkle. Google told him she was married and had a couple children now. If he closed his eyes, Stanley could remember her perfume well enough he could swear he smelled it. The memory followed him, sweet and tantalizing, until he hated himself for his weakness. By the end of the night, he had wound himself up so much that a cold shower wouldn't touch the craving. So it led to him giving into the need: koa lukewarm beer, a hot shower, and his own hand, imagining Carla’s touch, the bounce of her pink breasts just shoved together out of her blouse, as he stroked himself hard and fast. The release was slow to arrive and he as much swore as sighed in relief as his prick jerked spasmodically in his hand and fired his untargeted load onto the cold tile. He ignored the cool by comparison tears as he stood under the steaming spray until the hot water ran out. Cock aching from his desperate and self punishing treatment, Stanley pulled on his robe and dragged himself back to the project. 

The spring wasn't so bad. Doing Easter egg hunts for kids wasn't so bad. And missing Passover wasn't quite so terrible. He missed his Ma’s hamentaschen, and pretty much all her cooking, but ruefully admitted his waistline would not have been done any favors. St. Patrick's day was a big drink holiday, good for Stanley to stock up on cheap hooch the day after. April brought him a month of peace to work. It was still school time, no holiday but April Fool's, and too early for tourists. 

May and June shook his resolve. Graduation time and kids getting into trouble with new cars like he had with the El Diablo.

The Frontier Festival was the one Gravity Falls tradition Stanley couldn't tolerate, even with cheap beer or wine. By ten years since losing his twin, Stanley had learned to cope. He stocked up on supplies and all but barricaded himself in the Shack. Some of his biggest jumps in progress were made during that week. 

Stanley was able to shake off most of his memories until people started asking to take wedding photos in the pastoral backdrop of the woods behind the Shack. Weddings reminded him of his own failed marriage… More of a one night sham, really.

His birthday in Mid June had stopped being something he looked forward to. But he took two shots at midnight just the same. “I'm still working on it, Sixer. Happy birthday, wherever you are.” 

July 4 was always a good night to get his frustrations out. Blubs never really enforced the fireworks laws. And nobody slept with fireworks all night. Stan’s attempt to fire up the portal machine went unnoticed. And he consoled himself by setting off some fireworks himself. 

The toughest night to get through was August 14, Carla’s birthday. Stan had been thinking about getting serious with her… Until getting kicked out. He had no way of supporting himself; nothing to offer her. It took all his strength to force himself past dwelling. It took all his will to avoid taking out the picture of her he still kept in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. If he gave into that urge the night would be a total booze and self pity soaked loss. His record was 12 for 20; too many. He would never get back those nights he only barely managed to try the portal with shaking hands and bleary eyes. 

Afterwards, though, like in the run up to summer, the run down to Halloween - - the last outdoor holiday before spring thaw - - gave Stanley time to concentrate and focus. 

Halloween wasn't as exciting as Summerween because it was already cold. So Stanley marked the time off by eating the candies the kids never showed up for. 

The plodding pace went on like this with only minor changes. Year in. Year out. There was a significant break the August his great niece and nephew were born. His emotions were a tug of war. There was no way to see the newborn twins and work on the project. He chose the twins and stubbornly told himself he had earned these precious moments.

Twelve years later, they came to visit. But no break. Stan just remembered the best from his sneaky youth and worked when they went to bed. 

The night Ford came home went nothing like Stanley expected. He cracked the seal on the Glenlivet, and downed the whole bottle in grief and shock. Not so much that his brother could throw a punch, but that he was more angry after all these years than grateful to be home. 

It wasn't an alcohol problem. It was more the problems Stanley never saw coming until they were snarling in his face. For the first night in over 30 years, he had no goal before him, and only a broken relationship waiting for him in the morning. So this once, he let himself drift away to sleep on the smooth flow of expensive whiskey. The morning and an uncertain future would come for him soon enough.


End file.
